


Supermen

by Sloopy



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 11:19:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7974964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sloopy/pseuds/Sloopy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well, in that case, shall we dance?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Supermen

**Author's Note:**

> Hi lovely fandom. So many great stories here on this archive - I've lurked for a while, rejoiced at every new story, and it's come to a time when I couldn't resist throwing my own little tale into the mix. Also, gin. Thanks to everyone who writes for this fandom x

“Leave it, Trap,” he snaps. “Just leave it, will you?”

Hawkeye doesn't turn around as he says those words, but stands in his red robe at the open door of the Swamp, looking out at the sleeping camp, one hand holding onto the wooden frame.

Frank, mercifully for us although recuperating soldiers might say otherwise, is on post-op duty. We have the cockroach palace to ourselves. For a whole night. What's left of it. I try to pick up the torn threads of our conversation. They lie scattered in the dust. I grope my way towards them as best I can.

“Look...what I meant was...it's not... I mean dammit, Hawkeye, no one can be superman all the time.”

As reassurances go it's not one of my finest moments, but I like to think by now he knows my sentiments are good. They're always good, at least, in my head. 

“You're forgetting,” he says, and turns to smile humourlessly at me. “Superman can stop bullets. Superman can stop the world. I'm not him any time, not one time, two times, third time a charm, four times table, five gold rings! I can't stop...” he breaks off and once more faces away from me. I watch his shoulders shake with a suppressed sob and then he punches the door frame.

“Hey, hey,” I say, getting to my feet, blinking a little at the change of gravity, placing my glass down by the still with a careful precision. “Watch them hands, buster. They're needed, those hands.”

Hawk tips his head back and I can tell without seeing his face that he has his eyes closed. “I wish they weren't,” he says in a near-whisper.

I cross over to him, mindful of the broken glass on the floor, and place my hand on his back. I feel his shoulder blades under the material of his robe and rub my hand in what I hope to be a soothing motion. Stars blink overhead as insects buzz in the darkness. A tiny animal shape darts in hurried bursts between the tents.

“C'mon,” I say, and now I'm pulling slightly, trying to curl him away from the open door. He resists for a moment and then he is turning with me, and the door is closing on the world as he comes to rest in my arms. I feel the tremors in his body and close my own eyes, feeling the strain of too much pressure. Here, there and everywhere. What price dependability? Ask my ulcer.

He rests his forehead against mine. “It's my fault that kid died,” he says. His words ghost my skin.

I pull back and hold him at arms length. “You're kidding me, right?”

I'm struck by the sudden tired fury in his blue eyes. “Don't humour me, Trapper. Don't you dare do that to me.”

I stare at him, helpless in the face of his anger. I hurt too, don't he get that? My temper makes me grip his shoulders a little harder than necessary. 

“You operated for eighteen hours. We had over two-hundred wounded. Two-hundred!”

My voice sounds as offended as my feelings.

He closes his eyes and lets me shake him, like he deserves it. “Bad luck for that kid to come in last,” he says tonelessly. “I bet he was always the last picked for soccer. I bet he was last to tie his shoelaces, last to speak up in class, last to...”

“Hawk,” I say, and then decide to stop him a different way. His lips are soft against mine, familiar, pliant, chastened with gin. And then his hands bunch in my cotton t-shirt and his mouth opens and we cling together, suddenly desperate, all clashing teeth and tongues. My fingers entwine in his hair, my other hand grips his arm hard enough to bruise. I want to rip his robe off and push him back onto his cot. I want to make him cry out in a different way from when he is staring into the bottom of a dirty glass and saying that he killed someone. I want to make him feel life, god-dammit. 

He pulls back and his eyes flicker from my lips to my eyes and back again. I can taste blood. Mine or his? I don't know. Don't care. I want to kiss him again.

“Trap,” he says. “Why?”

There's a world of pain under his words. It stops everything. I reach up and smooth the wetness from under his eye with my thumb. I don't know if he means us or Korea, alcohol or the kid who came last one last time. Fate or chance. Love or hate. Peace or war.

He sways slightly against me and I realise how exhausted he is. 

“I don't know why,” I say, as sincerely as I can. “It's just the way it is. We can't stop it. No one can.”

Now I don't know what I'm talking about, either. Us? Them? It? Superman?

He moves his hand and cups mine, closing his eyes, leaning into the touch, before he nods in weary acceptance, eyes still closed. 

I'm reluctant to let him go. I want to finish what we started. I also want to collapse. But I can't move either way. Hawk's not the only one who is tired. He sways against me again and my free arm moves to hold him, cradling him. Protecting him against the war, against the world. Against himself.

“Well, in that case, shall we dance?” he asks, and moves closer.

So we do. And we do. We do what we always do.


End file.
